


Final Countdown

by Dordean



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9413066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dordean/pseuds/Dordean
Summary: The text. THE text.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own anything - wish I did. I've been obsessed with Lara Pulver's Irene from her very first scene in "Scandal in Belgravia". This is my first ever attempt at Sherlock - a short scene just played in my head during one sleepless night. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Spoilers to S04E03**

***

“Play me yourself” Eurus says and he does, immediately, instinctively. The only tune there is. The only one that matters.

 ***

Life at 221B Baker Street went on. Like John said, it was what it was. And it was shit. But it did go on. And they stumbled on with it, week after week, case after case, from one adventure to another. Just like Mary said they would.

_(It had been 2 months, 3 days, 5 hours, 37 minutes, 17 seconds since he sent that text.)_

_(Not that he’d been counting.)_

_(25 seconds.)_

 ***

_(3 months, 2 days, 8 hours, 12 minutes, 29 seconds.)_

He just solved a fascinating case that kept him high for weeks. He didn’t even feel the urge to smoke.

Life was good. Sometimes.

_(50 seconds)_

 ***

The dullest month of his entire life. The only highlight was Rosie, learning to say his name. And failing spectacularly.

For the last two weeks he had been fighting an overwhelming desire to shoot up.

_(5 months, 4 days, 22 hours and 10 seconds.)_

 ***

_(7 months, 5 days, 6 hours, 12 seconds)_

There was a faint scent in the air, a scent he noticed as soon as he opened the door. Hints of sandalwood, patchouli, vaguely oriental. He went directly to his room and there she was, snuggled in his bed, wearing his jumper, asleep. Again. For someone that cunning, she _was_ getting predictable.

He watched her for a while in silence, reading her face in the dim light of a street lamp. Then he left the room, made few arrangements. She was still asleep when he came back. Warily, he sat down on the bed. She woke up and for a long while they were just looking at each other, measuring, reading, assessing.

She had lost some weight, her hair was down in soft curls, no jewellery, no make-up, all her weapons of choice seemingly absent. Although she _did_ use her fragility against him twice before… 

“Dinner is ready.” he said eventually, his voice hoarse. How ridiculous.

_(Will she…? She must.)_

Her eyes lit up as she sat up, a small smile playing on her lips.

“I’m not hungry.”

_(Go on, you coward. Say it.)_

“Good.”

She was watching him with narrowed eyes, as if she wanted to make sure she was reading him correctly. Then, ever so slowly, she reached out, touched his hair, run her fingers gently down his cheek, barely touched his lips and finally placed her hand flat on his chest, over his heart.

He was sitting motionless, as if paralysed; his back straight, his breath caught in his throat.

He knew he had to react, eventually. But how? What did people _do_ in those situations? People who weren’t _him_?

“Are we still playing?” she asked in a quiet voice.

“I’m done with games for a little while.” he answered flatly, although a hint of bitterness and pain made its way into his voice against his will - and better judgement. “The last one turned out to be a torture.”

_(Molly. John. Eurus. Enough.)_

She tilted her head, the same small smile returning to her lips.

“But isn’t it...dull…?”

“Don’t know. Never tried.”

_(Come on. Do something. Now’s the time.)_

She was looking at him and seventeen different interpretations of her expression - no, eighteen - flashed in his mind in a quick succession, together with half as many scenarios; some impossible, other deeply disturbing. He did the only thing he could think of. He closed his eyes.

Her lips were cool and soft and tasted faintly of oranges. Natural flavour, not artificial. Not a lip gloss then, but rather an actual fruit - or juice. Three, maybe four hours ago, as the taste was barely noticeable. So not a hotel breakfast, something far more recent. Most likely dinner, as it was past midnight. A dessert then…

_(For once. Will you just. Shut. Up.)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was going to be a one-off scene. But then they went off and started texting each other, so...
> 
> (Thank you for all the lovely comments, they did inspire me to continue.)

***

He woke up, startled. He was alone and for the briefest of moments he thought he imagined the whole thing. Then he smelled coffee. The sheet wrapped around him, he stumbled into the living room.

_(Well. Definitely not a dream then.)_

Irene, in his jumper again, was curled up in the armchair – his armchair. Hair in a loose knot, slightly damp; she was reading a book, a cup of coffee on the table beside her. Tolstoy, his own copy of "War and Peace", two thirds in. A favourite chapter...? Morning sun filled the room, reflected off the windows across the street, and surrounded her in a warm glow. 

He stood in the door, marvelling at the sight, not quite capable yet of absorbing it fully. She smiled without taking her eyes off the book.

“There’s still some coffee left” she said. “I felt highly charitable towards you this morning.”

This jerked him into motion, a promise of caffeine slicing though his bafflement about last night’s events and his anxiety over their meaning and their potential consequences; things in the face of which his analytical mind was entirely helpless.

_(Would you not call this anxiety for what it is? Hope?)_

“Any particular reason for this charitable feeling?” he said as he poured himself coffee, just to say something, to gain a bit of control over the situation, to cover up how completely and utterly lost he felt.

She turned a page and shot him a sideways glance and a smile - sensual, provocative. He felt his pulse quicken; his body overriding his mind yet again.

“A few. Four or five. I lost track.” 

He shook his head, defeated. Once the wall was down and he let her close there was no way he could match her game. Emotions, sensuality, passion – all of these were her field of expertise; he might have been familiar with them in theory, might know the chemistry behind them, but he was still painfully unaccustomed to them in practice.

_(Well. Not ENTIRELY unaccustomed anymore.)_

He moved over to his desk, purposefully walking behind her and brushing his fingertips along her shoulder. He couldn’t help it. He needed some form of solid evidence that this – this connection, this…something, whatever that was – was still there, in the harsh light of the day. She touched his hand gently and his anxiety lifted a little. Only a little though. He sat at his desk, drinking his coffee and tried to read the paper, as he would do on any other regular Sunday. There was nothing regular about this particular Sunday though, and so he felt his mind wandering, questions spiralling out of control, with no answers in sight.

He heard her putting away the book and getting up. Within seconds she was behind him, turning him towards her, throwing the newspaper away and kissing him hard on the lips.

_(There’s your solid evidence.)_

He didn’t beg for mercy. Or at least he didn’t think he did…? Well, definitely not twice. He would have remembered  _that._

 ***

He was lying on the carpet, Irene beside him; he felt her hair against his skin. Whatever happened just then didn’t exactly help him to figure things out. But it definitely did shut down his brain for a short while, which was an interesting discovery in its own right - if only he had any brain cells left to analyse these things.

“Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking about.

He felt her smile.

“I always keep my word.”

“Do you really, Miss Adler.”

_(Irene.)_

He felt her hand on his chest, over his heart, that was still beating a little too fast.

“Sherlock” she said softly, and he wondered at the sound of his name coming from her lips. “I think we’re a little beyond that stage now, don’t you agree? And don’t you dare create a distance between us _now._ ”

He was quiet for a while; more than a little annoyed at how easily she saw through him.

“I’m just…” he started.

_(Completely lost.)_

She sat up and looked at him.

“You’re trying very hard to apply your brain and logic to what’s happening” she said with a soft smile. “It won’t work. You can stop now.”

He looked at her, irritated – at his helplessness, at her insight.

“Fine. So what now?” he asked, and only after he said the words aloud and saw her surprised expression, did he realise his mistake. “No, I didn’t mean…”

“I don’t know what happens now.” she said at the same time.

They both fell silent. He was staring at her, strangely relieved he wasn’t the only one failing to control the unfolding of the events.

“I’m leaving London in three days” she said after a short while and he felt as if someone slapped him awake.

_(No. Not now?)_

“Of course.” He said matter-of-factly, starting to get up, but she stopped him.

“I just said something about you creating a distance between us.”

He stared at her in confusion. She sighed.

“It only means that I don’t have much time here this time around.” She leaned towards him, her lips almost touching his. “But I will be in touch. And I do hope…” she kissed him, biting his lips gently. “I do hope, mister Holmes, that you reply.”

 

 ***

**_January_ **

_“Happy New Year. 8pm tomorrow?”_

It had been 3 months since… Well. Since all THAT. Not her first text since then - there’d been some casual exchange of information with occasional teasing - but that was the first time she had suggested a meeting. New Year…

_“What are you doing up at 2am?”_

_“Well done. Business, of course.”_

_“I don’t think I want to know._

_“You probably don’t. Found a place serving excellent sushi. You know. If you’re hungry.”_

It was easier to find his footing at a distance – and much easier to find the courage to try and play her game.

_“I’ll see if I am once I get there.”_

_“There's a direct flight in 4 hours. Pack light.”_

_“Why? Another short stay?”_

_“Not many outdoor activities on the itinerary.”_

_“It’s a fascinating city.”_

_“So I’ve heard. Too bad.”_

Would he dare…? But why wouldn’t he? After all, everything he was afraid of had already happened.

_“Indeed.”_

***  
**_February_**

_“Lunch tomorrow? My place.”_

_“Which one?”_

_“By the docks. Avoid cabs.”_

_“You want me to walk?”_

_“I want you not to get your brother here.”_

_“Really? I seem to remember certain tension between the two of you.”_

_“Well, look at you; suddenly a specialist.”_

_***_

**_April_ **

_"Congratulations on the MC's story. Your face is everywhere."_

_"This thing was blown out of all proportion, and only because of his father."_

_"Drew a moustache on the hotel's copy of Times. Doesn't suit you. Just so you know."_

_"Appreciate the advice."_

_"It was quite easy though."_

_"Wasn't overly complicated, agreed."_

_"I had it figured out two weeks in. But I still want to hear all the details."_

_"When?"_

_"Don't know yet."_

_"Getting hungry."_

_"Excellent."_

 

 ***  
**_May_**

_“This place is seriously boring. Dinner?”_

_“Can’t until Saturday.”_

_“Where are your priorities?”_

_“"Keeping appearances. Will have G’s problem solved by then.”_

_“Well, if you must. I want details. I’ll be in a casino.”_

_“You need to be a bit more specific.”_

_“You’re getting soft. Fine, I’ll be in THE casino.”_

_“You’re impossible, Ms. A.”_

_“Come on. You wouldn’t have it any other way.”_

_“There are few ways of having it I can think of.”_

_“…why, Mr H., I believe I may have broken you.”_

_“Or got me fixed.”_

_“Or that.”_

***

“You should really stop playing this silly game, you know,” Mycroft said coolly.

“Which game?”

“The one where we all pretend Irene Adler is still dead.”

He looked up sharply.

“What are you talking about?”

“Dear brother,” Mycroft smiled his favourite pitiful smile. “Hong Kong, six months ago. Monaco, two months ago. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

“I was indeed hoping you weren't spying on me _constantly,_ ” he snarled. “The Crown is in no imminent danger, as far as I'm aware.”

“You really should know better by now.” Mycroft pressed his fingers together, rested his chin on top of them. “So. How is she?”

“Fine,” he shrugged.

“And for how long are you planning to continue this little…entertainment?”

He felt a cold fury raising inside him, which was startlingly different - and, on an intellectual level, an interesting change - from a cool indifference he was so used to.

“And that, dear brother, is none of your business.”

Mycroft stared at him for a while.

“My, my. This is more serious than I thought,” he said eventually. “I will forever blame myself for putting her in your way.”

“Don’t,” he said, regaining his composure. “I can handle it.”

Mycroft was still giving him a measuring look.

“I really hope you know what you’re doing,” he paused for a moment. “Otherwise there won’t be much left once she’s done with you.”

 

***

She was lying on her side, her hand resting on his chest in a gesture that became so comfortably familiar over the last few months. It was past midday, and the air-conditioning was blasting at maximum capacity to keep away the heat of Madrid's sunny August day.

“Mycroft knows,” he said.

“It’s always been only a matter of time,” she smiled. “But he has no business in this. In me. I haven’t committed any crimes…within his jurisdiction.”

He couldn’t help smiling.

“I _really_ don’t want to know.”

“Would they make you testify?” she moved to lean over him, her face above his, her hair flowing down in soft curls. “What would they have to do to you?”

“You have no idea,” he paused. “You need to be more careful.”

“My dear mister Holmes,” she mocked, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I do believe you actually care.”

“Old news," he replied flatly. "You said that already. In Karachi."

"And you laughed it off," she smiled.

"Didn't make it less true," he shrugged. "And you know that I don’t exactly change.”

“Well…” she said, shifting her position slightly and making him gasp a little. “I wouldn’t say _that_ ….”

In one swift motion he threw her on her back and pinned her wrists to the bed.

“I don’t change.” he repeated, looking into her darkened eyes. “I simply _adjust_. Whenever that's necessary." 


End file.
